


MythosTale

by ErisAcolyte



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Adult Frisk?, Cthulhu Mythos, F/M, I just wanted an AU of my own, Lovecraftian nonsense, Mythos Tale, Other, Pretentious Quotes, Purple Prose, Sanity Loss, Surreal horror, That's what I'm calling it.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:22:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6519160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisAcolyte/pseuds/ErisAcolyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know how fandom is a wonderful thing?  And how Undertale has spawned, like, a *million* AUs?  Well, here's my stab at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	MythosTale

**~The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.~  
**

**  
**  
In the village where I was born, the men and women practice a most curious custom. For seven centuries, to that very night, it is the custom, every hundred years, to throw one of their own into the Abyss to pacify the Dark Gods of the Earth.

On a cold, dark night such as that, those prone to fevered imaginings might even fancy themselves hearing the terrified cries of those who came before them. I, myself, had been raised on tales of the Old Ones, and our most profane and sacred duties to them.

“Those that dwell beneath the Earth protect us from those that lie beyond the stars, my Child.” My mother had said, in what passed for a comforting lullaby in our quaint and horrible little village. “And such protections tax them, my child. They hunger, the Old Ones. And they hunger most for innocent blood.”

But what man, I ask you, may truly be called innocent? My mother may have thought me such, but in my mind I am as much a monster as any. Although my hands have never closed around the hilt of a blade or the softness of another's throat...I still dreamed. And in my darkest dreams, I dreamt great horrors, the likes of which many would dread to imagine.

I cannot not even speak of them now, much to my grim amusement.

You see, dearest, my story is to be a grim one, for that night, it was my body that they carried, with murderous reverence to the top of Mt. Ebott. Its is my body that they throw into the Abyss, to land in the ravening maws of the Old Ones, to appease their blood-lust for another century.

Why myself, you may ask? Oh, there are many reasons-- I am an ugly child, strange and silent. I have never spoken with my tongue, only watched with my eyes and lectured with my hands.

“Beware the man who speaks in hands,” A traveler once told me. It is my perversion, I feel, that led me to take this grim portent as mere advice since, if there is no quill to quiet my hands, they flutter free like the birds above.

But I am rambling-- I blame the madness that comes of facing one's own mortality. Forgive me.

I was explaining my predicament, was I not? Yes.

A strange and silent child, eyes too full of judgement and mind weighed down with maddening blasphemy-- when I volunteered to take the chosen sacrifice's place, no one objected. The sacrifice was grateful, of course and my parents? Well, unkind as it may be to dishonor them to you now, I do believe they felt great relief at the thought of my passing into that final darkness.

Atop the mountain, in the midst of the chanting, I felt a cold hand slip into mine, like that of an old friend. My dearest, I will admit to you now-- the hand was one of bone. Death, it seemed, would be my boon companion in this last journey.

The chanting of the villagers grew stronger as we reached the peak of that dread mountain. Mt. Ebott-- say it out loud, dearest. Is it not a flat, and ugly sound?

Ebott.Your teeth click together, you cut the word short. _Ebott._ A fitting word for a place of such finality.

I looked, then, to the faces of the men and women come together to condemn me, and found them blank. Certainly, their hooded robes cast obscuring shadows, but I fancy that their faces were _truly_ blank, then-- as devoid of features as I was devoid of hope.

Why, then, that feeling of peace in my soul? Why then, did my heart not beat faster?

Because I am mad, dearest?

Perhaps.

But dearest, hear my darkest secret now: I had  _prepared_ for this moment. I am _determined._

The villagers moved forward to push me, and the last human sound I heard were their cries of shock and surprise as I _leaped!_

 

 

**_~_ The process of delving into the black abyss is to me the keenest form of fascination.~  
**   


 

Would it surprise you, dearest, to know that I have studied the Old Ones? Their names, horrible though they are to fathom, are all better known to me than a preacher knows his scripture.

As I fell into that inky, infinite blackness, I cried out, my voice rusty from years of disuse (Ah, dearest, I am not _incapable_ of speaking, you see. But my voice is terrible to hear, dear one. That is why I choose silence. For the sake of man's fragile sanity) the names of those ancient royals we seek to placate.

I will not recite them all.

I will tell you, though, that falling is quite a wonderful, freeing experience-- until you make impact with the ground. I heard such terrible cracking and crunching sounds-- mortal sounds from a terribly mortal shell. But better than I was expecting, certainly.

I sat up with some effort, in a patch of golden flowers and considered my injuries. A crunch here, a lancet of dizzying pain there, a strong, acrid taste in my mouth. The left leg? Broken. The teeth? Three shattered; I spit the fragments into my hand and then take pains to pocket them. One never knows when one may need to barter in bone.

The wrist? Only bruised, thankfully. I made a few signs to test my hands, and found that, so long as I gritted my teeth, I could still manage “speaking”.

Beware the man who speaks in hands, indeed! Perhaps that strange merchant should have been more wary of me! I laughed, then, darling. Long and loud and breathlessly-- I like to believe you would have been happy for me, but perhaps you would have just considered it another sign of my ever worsening madness.

After a time, my hideous laughter piqued the interest of a local. Gold its decorations, and pallid its face-- I cannot describe it, here. Ah, the tentacles! My dearest, they were to plant life as hell is to sinners.

And then the pallid mask moved, and the golden creature _spoke_.

It spoke in a strange, lilting voice, like that of a young child. Surprised, I listened to every word...which might be why I did not see those dread tendrils coiling around my shattered leg. I was dragged up and off the flowered ground and the pain was _hideous_. I cried out, and the pallid creature laughed, so musically, it made me weep.

Or perhaps it was the pain that made me weep. Forgive me, dearest, I am the most unreliable of storytellers.

Those horrid tendrils of rotted flora began to grow spikes most cutting and deadly, but I had the wherewithal to cry out the creature's **NAME,** all the while forcing my hands to make the shape of its holy sign.

“HASTUR!”

The creature dropped me and its pallid mask twisted into a look of most comical surprise. I tried and failed to stifle my maddened laughter as I picked my broken body off the flowered ground once more.

“ _T_ _hat is not my name anymore!”_ The pallid creature hissed and oh, did I fear its wrath. _“I am the Yellow King!”_

Its tendrils shot forward, again and I expected my journey to come to a most painful end, praying only for the mercy of a swift death-- but then there was a flash of heat and light that made me cover my eyes in terror.

When I dared to lower my arms, dearest, I was not alone. The pallid creature was nowhere to be seen, but a towering being stood in its place. A woman, certainly, but no woman like I had ever seen outside the blasphemous etchings in the eldritch tomes of my studies.

The head of a goat, the body of all mothers...

As I tried to make sense of the awe inspiring sight before me, she spoke. “I am Shub-Niggurath, caretaker of the Ruined City. Come with me, and I will keep you safe.”

You will understand my surprise, dearest, when she took my trembling hand ever so gently in her giant talons and made to lead me away from the strange, golden flowers. I stumbled, dearest. My leg betrayed me-- the She Goat looked down at my crumpled body and made a soft and keening sound. Oh dearest, a beautiful sound.

A sound my own mother never made. I wept at the beauty of her kindness and she enfolded me in her terrible arms and held me close to her chest. The sound of her heart was the very heartbeat of the earth and it lulled me into sleep.

I will not speak, my dearest, about the Ruined City, or the She Goat's demesnes. I know such tales upset you. I know, too, that it was your gentle voice that dragged me from that temple sanctuary once my wounds were healed.

Despite the She Goat's tears and protestations, my dearest, you bade me continue you my journey, and who am I to disobey? Still, my heart was heavy as I heard the ominous sound of the Temple's doors close behind me, cutting off her mournful, too human sobs.

Oh, but that I were one of her thousand young. But that I could have lingered there, my head forever nestled against that mighty chest, like the resting place of the peaceful dead.

But you bade me to journey onward, my dearest and I was determined.

 

 

**~Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places.~**

 

 

It snows underground, here. I laugh at the sight of the softly glowing flurries, like the child I so recently was. Like the innocent child I can never be again. I fall backwards into a snowdrift and laugh and laugh-- I imagine you laugh with me for a while dearest, until I do, in fact, hear it!

Ah, but it is not _actually_ you, dearest. We storytellers call that dramatic license, dear heart.

I opened my eyes to see a horror looming above me-- Death, quite literally, stood over me, one single blue light glowing brightly from the hollow eye socket of his skull. He held a hand out to me, dearest, and of course it was a hand of bone.

I clasped it as Elliot's drowning men grasped for that pale coral, and he drew me to my feet in one, swift movement. He was, my dearest, the least frightening thing I had seen so far, for all that he looked every inch like our ignorant depictions of the Reaper.

Smiling (but how could he not?), he asked me if this was how I greeted a friend, his fingers still clasped in mine. I _knew_ those fingers, dearest. These were the fingers that had intertwined with mine when I stood atop the Mountain's precipice.

Laughing, I let go of his hand and let my hands flutter with great energy and cheer, “Death, my boon companion! So good to meet you...in the _flesh_!”

He starts at the sight of my hands in motion. Can death be afraid? Or perhaps, dearest, I had already frightened away my newest friend? (You are the first friend, dearest. And, as you so often say, you will probably also be the last).  
  
“You speak in hands?” He intones, that blue light glowing hellishly bright and steady. His grin, rictus or no, seems to widen and he speaks with great cheer, “How _handy_ for you!”

I laugh, again, and I wonder if this will be the time, finally, when I find myself unable to stop. I _could_ laugh myself to death, dearest, do not mock. It is definitely a possibility.

But instead we walk in companionable silence, like friends who have known each other forever tend to walk. And dearest, I _do_ feel that I have known him forever.

He tells me he has a brother and soon enough I meet the brother, too. Have you read Godot, my dearest? They were every inch Didi and Gogo when they spoke, and it warmed my heart, immensely.

The tall brother had plans to drag me before his dread king and see me sacrificed...but, Dearest, I get the feeling that his heart was not entirely equal to the task. Perhaps it was the fact that skeletons _have_ no hearts, but I am a poor student of emotions, even as I remain an _excellent_ student of anatomy.

I would have tarried with Didi and Gogo, and happily met my end in laughter, but you bade me walk again.

 

 

**~The world is indeed comic, but the joke is on mankind.~**

 

 

You know how my journey progresses from there, dearest. That hideous, piscine warrior-- child of Mother Hydra and Father Dagon-- oh how she vexed me! It was here, dearest, that I learned of the strange and potent power I had within me.

Dearest, you are a tease. You knew all along, did you not? You knew death held no dominion over me. How could he, when he had already shown himself to be my boon companion?

Every time one of her spears pierced my head, my chest, my throat-- every time I felt the lifeblood leave my body, I was called back. What an exquisite hell, dearest.

I would have to _win_ this fight or be trapped, like Sisyphus, to endure the same tortures eternal.

It took me, I am ashamed to say, thirteen tries, before I dodged her spears long enough to make a passable elder sign. She balked at its sight, but that moment's hesitation was all I needed to flee. I ran like the very hounds of hell were at my feet...and, I suppose, if one replaced hell hounds with deep ones, that would be accurate enough for this retelling.

I passed from a land of snow, through a land of water (the tears from centuries of bitter wishes and unheard prayers to uncaring deities) and into a land of fire and light. Dagon's child could not follow me in Cthugha's flaming realm. Still, as she dropped to the arid ground, her gills fluttering like broken wings, I felt myself moved by pity and I stopped to give her the blessings of water and salt, as my mother taught me when I was small.

She gave me such a look of confusion, dearest, and I fancy that her expression must have matched yours. We _can_ be kind, dearest. Its not impossible and, despite _much_ evidence to the contrary, it is occasionally appreciated.

You urged me onward, inexorably, and I felt a pang of sorrow as I left Hydra's child behind me and ventured into Cthugha's realm. You know that I met Yig, there. She worked as a scientist and, although the brains in jars around her were in no way reassuring, she seemed a harmless, friendly soul...

...well, until talk of experimentation and dissection began.

Seven times, dear heart. Seven deaths until I found a way off of her operating table and out of her lab. Dearest, she _laughed_ each time I resurrected and, after a time, I found myself laughing back in kind. Truthfully, I cannot hold her experimentation against her-- it seemed to bring her such joy.

Had you not been so keen to rush me onward, dearest, I feel that Yig and I would have become close friends. Well, as close as one can be when one is merely a brain decanted in a jar.

Perhaps equally sad at my departure, she sent her dread machine to stalk me. A most interesting Grey it was-- he called himself a robot. The Mi-Go piloting it: Mettaton, he called himself. We laughed at his casual blasphemy. The voice of God, indeed!

But dearest, was his singing not a thing of divinity? Did we not have _such_ fun in our performance of the unspeakable play? Did I not make an _excellent_ Camilla? Truly, it was all too easy to remember the pallid creature of vines and blossoms when I spoke her eponymous line: _“No mask? No mask!”_

You seemed unhappy, dearest. Was it Mettaton's portrayal of the Stranger that vexed you so? I will agree, poor critic of the arts that I am, that the Grey was far too expressive to play the stoic Stranger, but you _did_ carry on so.

But I live to see your wide and happy smile, dearest, so I left the Grey behind, weeping at his shattered metallic body. _I_ did that, dearest. I broke his beautiful body, just so we could continue our journey.

These hands have sinned, I sign to no one. No one but you, dearest.

...may I take a moment, dearest, to speak of my boon companion, Death? I know the skeleton is not much loved in your eyes, but I hold him close to my heart.

I am pleased by your indulgences, dearest.

We met many times throughout my journey. Perhaps many would be surprised to find Death suddenly at their side, but I have seen _far_ too many wonders and horrors to feign shock at this point in my life.

He took me to dinner, dearest! Twice!

Such a funny creature, my Death. He laughs when I call him such. “That's not my name.” He says, cheerfully. He will not tell me his name, though. He tells me that he made a promise not to hurt me.

“Hearing your name would hurt me?”

“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, spooky.”

He calls me Spooky, dearest. Perhaps he thinks me dead already? A ghost that lingers at his side, hopeful for another touch of his bony fingers to my star-stuff?

Or perhaps...hm. I _have_ noticed, dearest, that no one calls anyone by their name, here and that strange custom _does_ seem to extend to myself, as well. My own name, extended in courtesy, has been trembling on the very tips of my fingers ever since I came to this strange, sunless realm, but no one offers theirs, so my hands invariably still.

I call him Death, or Didi. I call his brother Gogo. He finds both amusing, and tells me to inform him, should I ever see Godot.

“Do you think it likely?” I sign, my hands in movement more lovely than even the most heaven-bound ballerinas.

He watches them with that fierce and awful blue glow, before shaking his head. The glow winks out like the death of a star and I find myself shuddering at the solemn sight of my companion.

“Not likely, Spooky. You can't see what isn't there, anymore.”

 

 

**~He is a king whom emperors have served.~**

 

 

But let us move on, now, dearest. I can see you are impatient to do so. I reached the castle-- impressive in its ruins, a beautiful tomb bathed in endless, golden light. I marveled at the sight of it, and did not see the floral rot creeping along in my wake.

It followed me, silently, as I entered the castle's main hall. Not a throne room, but a place of Judgement. I have judged before, dearest. I have judged the sins of my mother and father. I have made them cry out as they felt those sins crawl down their backs-- but I was a child, then, dearest. It was the judgement of a child.

And this judgement was no childish thing.

My Death stood before me, and spoke softly of my deeds, both heroic and horrible. I relived every one, from the moment I cried out the Yellow King's name to the moment I stood, shaking, in his great, yellow hall.

I wept, then, dearest. I know your eyes remained dry, even though my Death's judgement was partially yours to bear. You do not understand what it is to feel such pain, my dear heart-- or perhaps you did, once. I wonder if you could now, if you tried?

I felt a stirring in my breast, a feeling very like love. You might remember it, dearest, as the songs I sing to you with my hands every night before you draw me down into tormented slumber.

With that love welling within me, I reached out my hands to my Death and begged for mercy. My death wept then, too, and took me into his skeletal embrace. “There is nothing to forgive. Though you lost your innocence, you never lost your _Innocence_.”

And in that moment, dearest, I understood everything. I understood your plan for me and I knew your dread name. It hovered on my lips, then, like a promise of death, but I bit down hard and let the blood pool in my mouth.

“Tell me your name, Didi.” I rasped, my voice too-loud even to my own ears. He blinks at the horror of my voice-- but it is not truly horrible to one such as him, is it dearest?

After all, it is _your_ voice.

“I am the Messenger, Spook.” He replies, and his voice is deep with sorrow. “I am the one with One Thousand Faces. You knew me already, didn't you? You've always known me...”

“I've been so alone.” I rasped, and you didn't understand, dearest. This was a moment for me and my Death alone. You will never understand.

“Wouldn't want you to be...bonely.” He chuckles, but the humor is weak and he knows it. He will not speak his name. I can see that, now. If it is a thing to be done, _I_ must be the one to do it.

“Lazy-bones.” I rasp, rolling my eyes and pulling away from him with a smile that looks _so_ like yours, dearest.

...and that's where we are now.

 

That's the story.

My Death, my Dearest and Me.

 

We stand together in this great, yellow hall and, like poor Camilla, I hold the answer to this mystery in my hand. You expect me to plunge a dagger into his heart and damn him, nameless, to his destruction.

Then you expect me to do the same to the King of this Realm. And then to his son and heir.

And then, when the throne lies empty, you expect me to use _your_ voice. That voice I have kept quiet all my life. You expect me to sing.

And when I sing that last, beautiful song, you will awaken...and end our world.

A name is on my lips.

My Death's hand is in mine. Your grip tightens on my Soul and I hear you _hiss_ in my ear...

 

 

**~I have seen beyond the bounds of infinity and drawn down daemons from the stars...I have harnessed the shadows that stride from world to world to sow death and madness.~**

 

 

Azathoth. The demon that comes when you call its name. The Mad God who dreams our world into being.

But it will not be your name I sing, dearest...my sincerest apologies. Together, hand in hand with my Death, I walk to the high windows of the yellow hall. I can see the garden from here. The flowers are blooming.

My Death's hand is in mine and I. Am. **DETERMINED**.

“Nyarlathotep.” I say, simply, and for once, it is my voice, and not yours. How small it sounds.

How simple.

My death, Nyarlthotep, he catches me when I fall. His name has banished you back to the realm of sleep, my dearest, as of course it must.

I can hear the Pallid King in the garden as my body goes limp. He is crying, my dearest. I think he wanted to see you, again. Perhaps, in strange eons to come, he will have his wish. But not, I think, today.

 

 

**~Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end.~**

 

 

Reader, if you are reading this, then rejoice! The Mad God sleeps once more and the world of man is safe, again. Thank you, reader, for allowing me to tell you this strange tale, and let me beg of you one more, small indulgence before I go to join my skeletal companion in the realms of Dream eternal.

Let me tell you my name.

Reader, call me...Frisk.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to a lot of Agnes Obel while writing this, and I highly recommend it (especially this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHBa2ANs0fo ).
> 
> Also, Undertale belongs to Toby Fox. All the quotes are either from H.P. Lovecraft or Robert Chambers.
> 
> Finally, I've done a picture for this: http://joephilliactheblack.deviantart.com/art/MythosTale-Frisk-602617442


End file.
